O ye’ll tak’ the high road an’ I’ll
tak’ the low road
An’ I’ll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me an’ me true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
what connection it may have had with the history of poor Nick Goodall  I have often wondered.
 Poor Nick Coodall died in the almshouse of Jefferson County some thirty years ago. A better account of this incident was widely printed at that time.
As the last note died into silence I turned to Hope, and she was crying.
‘Why are you crying?’ I asked, in as miserable a moment as I have ever known.
‘It’s the music,’ she said.
We both sat in silence, then, hearing only the creak of the buggy as it sped over the sandy road. Well ahead of us I saw a man who suddenly turned aside, vaulting over the fence and running into the near woods.
‘The night man!’ I exclaimed, pulling up a moment to observe him.
Then a buggy came in sight, and presently we heard a loud ‘hello’ from David Brower, who, worried by our long stay, had come out in quest of us.
Hope’s love of music became a passion after that night. Young Mr Livingstone, ‘the city chap’ we had met at the church, came over next day. His enthusiasm for her voice gave us all great hope of it. David Brower said he would take her away to the big city when she was older. They soon decided to send her in September to the big school in Hillsborough.
‘She’s got t’ be a lady,’ said David Brower, as he drew her into his lap the day we had all discussed the matter. ’She’s learnt everything in the ‘rithinetic an’ geography an’ speller. I want her t’ learn somethin’ more scientific.’
‘Now you’re talkin’,’ said Uncle Eb. ‘There’s lots o’ things ye can’t learn by cipherin’. Nuthin’s too good fer Hope.’
‘I’d like t’ know what you men expect of her anyway,’ said Elizabeth Brower.
‘A high stepper,’ said Uncle Eb. ’We want a slick coat, a kind uv a toppy head, an a lot O’ ginger. So’t when we hitch ‘er t’ the pole bime bye we shan’t be ‘shamed o’ her.’
‘Eggzac’ly,’ said David Brower, laughing. ‘An’ then she shall have the best harness in the market.’
Hope did not seem to comprehend all the rustic metaphors that had been applied to her. A look of puzzled amusement came over her face, and then she ran away into the garden, her hair streaming from under her white sun-bonnet.
‘Never see sech a beauty! Beats the world,’ said Uncle Eb in a whisper, whereat both David and Elizabeth shook their heads.
‘Lord o’ mercy! Don’t let her know it,’ Elizabeth answered, in a low tone. ‘She’s beginning to have-’
Just then Hope came by us leading her pet filly that had been born within the month. Immediately Mrs Brower changed the subject.